No Business Of Mine Read online

  What makes you so het up about it?”

  “I’m not het up about it,” I said, “but it’s odd she should have kept

  it hidden in a dress like that, isn’t it?” I suddenly wondered if I was

  making a fool of myself.

  “Well, you can get into trouble having one of these things she

  might have hidden it with that in mind,” Corridan returned, stretching

  out his long legs and sniffing at his brandy. “Nothing more concrete?”

  I told him about the sixteen five-pound notes, and handed them

  and the letter to Anne Scott over to him. I also gave him the diamond

  ring.

  “You certainly searched the place pretty thoroughly,” he said,

  cocking an eye at me. “I don’t know if you had any right in there . . .

  had you?”

  “Maybe not,” I returned, chewing my cigar, “but this business

  worries me, Corridan. I feel there’s something wrong somewhere.” I

  went on to tell him about the man who had attacked me.

  He showed some interest at last.

  “Did you see him?”

  “It was damned dark, and I was startled. All right,” I went on when

  he half smiled. “I was scared pink. So would you’ve been if it had

  happened to you. The guy sprang out at me with what looked like a

  tyre lever, and he had a damned good shot at bashing my brains in. I

  couldn’t see much of him, but he seemed young, slight, and could run

  like hell. I think I’d know him again if I saw him.”

  “What do you think he was after?”

  “The gun perhaps,” I said, “that’s why I suggest you have it

  checked. You see there’s a scratch on the barrel and it looks as if at

  one time a name was engraved on the butt. I believe the gun might

  tell us something.”

  “You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” he grunted.

  “Still, there’s no harm checking the gun.” He sniffed at it. “Been fired,

  I’d say a month or so ago. Smells of lilac, too.”

  “Her favourite perfume,” I told him. “Well, that’s my story. I

  hoped you’d be more impressed, but I should have known better. The

  trouble with you is you’ve no imagination.”

  He stroked his long fleshy nose. “Maybe I haven’t, but I’ve a lot of

  horse sense, and I still think she committed suicide.” He picked up the

  envelope, tapped it on his finger-nails. “Shall we see what’s in here?”

  “Can we?”

  “The police can do anything,” he said with a wink. He took out a

  pencil, slid it under the flap of the envelope, rol ed it gently backwards

  and forwards. After a little persuasion the flap lifted.

  “Easy once you know how,” he said, looking at me with his half-

  hearted smile. “You have to have the right touch, of course.”

  “I’ll keep my mail out of your reach,” I said. “Well, what’s inside?”

  He glanced into the envelope, whistled. With finger and thumb he

  hooked out what seemed a stack of over-printed paper.

  “Bearer bonds,” he said.

  I leaned forward. “Seems a lot of them,” I said, gaping.

  His fingers flicked through them. “Five thousand pounds worth,”

  he said. “Now I wonder where these came from?” He glanced inside

  the envelope. “No note. Hmm, this is a little odd I must say.”

  I laughed at him. “Now you’re starting. The whole thing’s odd to

  me. Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I think I’ll take a trip to Lakeham and see Miss Scott. I’d like to

  know where these bonds came from. If she can’t tell me, I’ll have to

  check them. That may be a longish job; still, I want to know.”

  “Could I come with you to Lakeham?” I asked. “I’ll play Watson to

  your Holmes. Besides, I’d like to meet the sister. Maybe she doesn’t

  know Netta’s dead. I think I should be there when the news is

  broken.”

  “By all means come,” he said, getting to his feet. “Shall we say to-

  morrow morning? We can go down by car.”

  “Swell. But don’t think you’re through yet,” I said. “There’s one

  more thing I want you to do. Where can I see Netta? I want to see her

  before she’s buried.”

  “A bit morbid, aren’t you?” he shot at me. “What good can that

  do you?”

  “I’m funny that way,” I said, stubbing out my cigar. “Suppose you

  come along too? I want you to see her if only to be in a better position

  to judge when the lid comes off this business, as I’m sure it will. I have

  a hunch we’re on to something that’s going to be big, and you’ll thank

  me in the long run for putting you wise.”

  “I’ve never met such a chap,” Corridan muttered, went over to

  the telephone, called the Yard.

  I stood by while he ordered a police car to pick us up outside the

  Savoy.

  “Come along,” he said, “if it hadn’t been such a damn good dinner

  I’d have told you to have gone to blazes, but I suppose I’ll have to pay

  for my entertainment. Who knows, you may invite me again.”

  “Maybe I will at that,” I said, following him along the corridor to

  the elevator.

  It took us under a quarter of an hour to reach the mortuary, and

  the officer in charge, startled to have a visit from Corridan, came out

  to greet us.

  “Netta Scott,” Corridan said abruptly. He was always short with

  his inferiors in rank. “You have her here. We want to see her.”

  The constable, a young, red-faced country-looking fellow, shook

  his head. “Not now, sir,” he said. “She was here, but she was taken to

  the Hammersmith mortuary an hour ago.”

  Corridan frowned. “Oh? On whose orders?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the constable replied, looked blank.

  “You don’t know?” Corridan barked, “But surely you had an

  official order before you let them take the body?”

  The constable changed colour. “Well, no, sir,” he said. “I’m new

  here. I-I didn’t know an order was necessary in this case. The driver of

  the ambulance said there’d been a mistake, and the remains should

  ‘ave gone to Hammersmith. I let him take the body.”

  Corridan, his face dark with fury, pushed past the constable, went

  into the office, slammed the door.

  The constable stared after him, scratched his head. “Now I

  wonder what’s up,” he said, looking at me. “Do you think I did wrong,

  sir?”

  I shrugged. “Search me,” I said, feeling uneasy. “But you’ll know

  before long.”

  After several minutes, Corridan came out of the office, walked

  past the constable, jerked his head at me. At the door he paused,

  looked back.

  “You’ll hear a lot more about this, my man, before very long,” he

  snapped at the constable, walked to the police car.

  I got in beside him, and as we drove off, I said, “Well, do we go to

  Hammersmith?”

  “Hammersmith didn’t send for the body,” Corridan growled.

  “Anyone but a fool would have known it was a plant. A couple of

  hours back an ambulance was reported stolen. Someone- believe it or

  not-has kidnapped Netta Scott’s body. It’s fantastic! Why, for God’s
r />   sake?” and he thumped the hack of the driver’s seat with his clenched

  fist.

  Chapter IV

  THE next morning, I awoke with a start. The telephone was

  ringing, and sitting up in bed, I grabbed the receiver, stifling a yawn as

  I did so. I peered at my bedside clock and saw it was ten minutes past

  eight, grunted, “Who is it?”

  “Inspector Corridan asking for you,” the porter said.

  “All right, send him up,” I returned, snatched up my dressing-

  gown and rushed into the bathroom for a hasty shower.

  I had slept badly, and was still feeling a little piqued at the abrupt

  way Corridan had returned me to the Savoy. He had said, “Sorry,

  Harmas, but this is police business now. Can’t take you along with

  me,” and that was that. Of course, he was rattled, and I realized that

  he had something to get rattled about, but I thought he had a nerve

  to ditch me after I’d given him so much data to work on; but Corridan

  was like that. When he started on a job, he worked alone.

  I was just coming out of the bathroom when I heard a rap on my

  door. I opened it; Corridan entered. He looked tired, was unshaven.

  “Have you only just got up?” he snapped, tossing his hat on a

  chair. “I haven’t even been to bed.”

  “You don’t expect me to sob over that item of news, do you?” I

  returned. “After the way you dropped me last night?”

  He looked more surly than ever, sat down. “Get me some coffee,

  there’s a good fellow, and don’t grouse,” he said, “I’ve had a hell of a

  night.”

  I picked up the telephone, called the floor waiter, ordered coffee.

  “You have only yourself to blame,” I said. “If you’d have kept me

  with you, I’d have halved your work.”

  “I’m seeing the Chief in half an hour’s time, and I thought I’d look

  in on my way to tell you the news,” Corridan said. “First the gun. It

  belonged to a fellow named Peter Utterly, a lieutenant in the U.S.

  Army. He’s been repatriated, but we persuaded the authorities on the

  other side to get a statement from him. Apparently he knew Netta

  Scott, gave her the Luger as a souvenir. You’ll remember I told you

  that was the probable explanation of the gun.”

  “You’ve been quick,” I said, a little disappointed that the

  explanation should be so commonplace.

  “Oh, we work fast when necessary,” Corridan said, looked dour.

  “So much for the gun. We traced the ambulance. It was found on

  Hampstead Heath, but the body is still missing. We have a description

  of the driver, but it could fit any young fel ow. Where the body’s got

  to defeats me, and why it was stolen defeats me still more.”

  “There must be an explanation,” I said, waving to the waiter who

  had just entered to put the coffee on the table. “Unless it was a

  practical joke.”

  Corridan shrugged. “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he said,

  glanced at his watch. “Let’s have that coffee. I have to be off in a

  moment.”

  While I was pouring the coffee, he went on, “I’ve had the bonds

  checked. They are forgeries. That’s always something to worry about.

  Can you suggest why this girl should be hiding forged bonds in her

  flat?”

  “Not unless someone gave them to her, and she thought they

  were genuine,” I said, handing him the cup of coffee. “Of course, I’ve

  been out of touch with Netta for a long time now. She may have got

  into bad company, but I doubt it.

  He sipped the coffee, grunted. “I think that’s likely,” he said. “The

  diamond ring you found has a history. It’s part of a considerable

  amount of jewelery stolen a few weeks ago. The owner of the

  jewelery, Hervey Allenby, identified the ring late last night. Our

  people have been waiting for the stuff to come into the market. This

  ring is the first sign of it. How do you think she got hold of it?”

  I shook my head, perplexed. “Maybe someone gave it to her,” I

  said.

  “Then why should she hide it at the bottom of a jar of cold

  cream?” Corridan returned, finishing his coffee. “Odd place to keep a

  ring unless you have a guilty conscience, isn’t it?”

  I said it was.

  “Well, it’ll sort itself out,” Corridan went on. “I still don’t think we

  have any grounds to suppose the girl was murdered, Harmas. After all

  that’s the thing that was worrying you. You can leave this other

  business to me.”

  “So you’re going to play copper, are you?” I said. “Well, I think

  someone knocked her off. If you’ll take the trouble to use that hat

  rack you call a head, I’ll explain in two minutes why it wasn’t suicide.”

  He eyed me coldly, moved to the door.

  “I’m afraid I can’t spare the time, Harmas,” he said. “I have a lot to

  do, and newspaper men’s theories scarcely interest me. Sorry, but I

  suggest you leave this to those competent to handle it.”

  “There must be times when Mrs. Corridan is very proud of you,” I

  said sarcastically. “This is one of them, I should think.”

  “I’m single,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint you. I must be getting

  along.” He paused at the door. “I’m afraid there can be no question of

  you coming with me to see this Anne Scott. This is official business

  now. We can’t have Yankee newspaper men barging in on our

  preserves.”

  I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s the way you feel, think no more

  about it.”

  “I won’t,” he said, with a sour smile, quietly left the room.

  For a moment or so I was too mad to think clearly, then I calmed

  down, had to grin. If Corridan thought he could keep me out of this

  business he was crazy.

  I bundled into my clothes, grabbed the telephone and asked

  Inquiries how I could hire a car. They said they’d have one ready for

  me in twenty minutes after I’d explained I could get petrol on my

  Press card. I smoked two cigarettes, did a little thinking, then went

  downstairs.

  They had found me a Buick. I was too scared to ask them how

  much it would cost, took the hall porter aside and inquired my way to

  Lakeham. He said that it was a few miles from Horsham, and

  suggested I should leave London via Putney Bridge and the Kingston

  By-pass. The rest of the run, he told me, would be simple as Horsham

  was well signposted.

  In spite of its rather obvious age, the Buick ran well, and I reached

  the Fulham Road in less than a quarter of an hour and without having

  to ask the way. At this time of the morning, the traffic was coming

  into London, and I had practically a clear road ahead of me.

  As I passed the Stamford Bridge football ground, one of the

  landmarks described by the hall porter, I noticed in the driving mirror

  a battered Standard car which I was fairly certain I’d seen behind me

  at Knightsbridge. I thought nothing of it until I reached Putney Bridge

  when I spotted it again. Being still a little jittery from the attack of last

  night, I began to wonder if I was being tailed.

  I tried to cat
ch sight of the driver, but the car was equipped with a

  blue anti-dazzle windscreen, and I could only make out the silhouette

  of a man’s head.

  I drove up Putney High Street, stopped at the traffic lights as they

  turned red. The Standard parked behind me.

  I decided I would have to make certain that this man in the

  battered Standard was following me. If he was, I’d have to shake him.

  I wondered if Corridan had set one of his cops on to tailing me,

  decided it wasn’t likely.

  I was glad I had the Buick because it was obviously more powerful

  than the Standard which looked to me to be only a fourteen

  horsepower job against my thirty-one. As soon as the traffic lights

  changed to yellow, I shoved down the accelerator pedal, made a

  racing get-away. I roared up the hill leading from Putney, changed

  into top, missing second, and belted forward with the speedometer

  swinging dangerously near eighty miles an hour.

  I saw people staring after me, but as no policeman hove into

  sight, I couldn’t care less. I let the Buick have all the petrol it could

  take until I reached the top of the hill. Then I eased off the throttle,

  looked rather contentedly into the mirror, had the shock of my life.

  The Standard was about twenty feet from my tail.

  I was still uncertain that I was being tailed. It might be that the

  guy had decided to show me I wasn’t the only one with a fast car. I

  now had a healthy respect for the battered Standard, whose shabby

  body obviously concealed a first-class engine, tuned for speed.

  I kept on; so did the Standard. When I reached the beginning of

  the By-pass, and he was still a hundred yards or so behind me, I

  decided to be foxy.

  I flapped my hand out of the window, pulled up by the side of the

  road, watched the Standard shoot past me. As it went by I spotted the

  driver. He looked a youth. He was dark, a greasy slouch hat was pulled

  down low, but I saw enough of his face to recognize him. He was the

  runt who’d tried to make a batter out of my brains the previous night.

  Now feeling certain he had been tailing me, I watched the

  Standard go on, and I reached for a cigarette. I guessed he would be

  pretty mad by now, wondering what he could do. He couldn’t very

  well stop — couldn’t he? I had to grin. A couple of hundred yards

  farther up the road, he pulled up.